


Power of Creation

by Gir_Hugs



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gir_Hugs/pseuds/Gir_Hugs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Miles is kind of like Frankenstein and Bass is his creation.</p><p>(A series of character studies, connected but in random order, using quotes from Frankenstein as inspiration.  OR an attempt by the author to work out a lot of overwhelming FEELS for these two beautifully broken characters)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reflection

* * *

_At first I started back, unable to believe that it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification._

_  
_From Mary Shelley's Frankenstein

* * *

 

Blood is spattered across his face like freckles, creating an almost innocent image; he hadn’t been innocent for a long time now.

 

He touches his fingers to his cheek and smears the blood across his skin.  Dipping his hands into the water, his reflection goes skittering across the surface, broken and fragmented.  He roughly scrubs the caked-on blood from his hands and arms and face.    

 

The fucking Blackout had done more than throw the world into darkness, it beckoned the darkness from within to come out and play.  Because when the worlds gone to shit and there’s no one there to tell you ‘No,’ then everything just becomes about _survival_.  And if there’s one thing humans were good at doing, it was surviving, no matter what or who it cost.

 

That’s why they had decided to start the Militia.  They saw humanity fighting a losing battle to shear savageness and they wanted it to stop.  They thought they could bring a little order back to the world.  They thought they could _fix_ things, the world, society…people.

 

Killing is not new to him.  But at least Before, he used to feel something.  Sometimes it was guilt; sometimes it was justification; sometimes it was just really fucking mad.  Point is, he used to _feel_.  Now he’s just…numb.

 

He walks back towards his men and circles the camp.  He comes to a stop next to Jeremy.

 

“What are they doing?”

 

Jeremy eyes him from the side.  “I’d think that after all this time you’d know what a grave looks like…sir.”

 

And even though Jeremy looks tired and almost defeated, the little bit of challenge in the tone eases something inside Bass.  The familiarity of it is soothing.

 

“I’m asking why they’re wasting their energy.  It’s a long march back to Philly.”

 

“Is that an order?  To stop?”  Jeremy asks, tension thrumming through his body. 

 

Bass glances towards the pile of bodies and then back to the tiny graves being dug out.  “No.”

 

“Good,” Jeremy nods brusquely and curls his fingers around the shovel propped at his side.  “Because I wouldn’t have followed the order anyways and I’d hate to be charged with insubordination,” he says with a tight smile before going to join the rest of the men.

 

Bass watches the proceedings with detachment.  The sun has climbed to its apex in the sky by the time all seventeen graves are done.  Moving over to the pile of bodies, Bass lifts the first into his arms easily.  He walks over to the farthest grave and places the body within its final resting place.

 

Wide, brown eyes stare blankly up at him.  Bass goes to close the eyes and pauses, seeing himself reflected more clearly in the eyes of the dead six year old than he has in years.  His breath comes whooshing out and a sickening wave of horror starts building in his chest.

 

_Oh god…_

 

What had he done?  Who cares if they were acting as runners for the Rebels?  They didn’t deserve this.  They were children, for fuck’s sake!

 

Bass feels his hands begin to shake and he takes a small step away from the grave.  Distancing himself from those accusing eyes does nothing to erase the image of the monster he’s become.

 

“General Monroe?”

 

For the first time, Bass is actually _glad_ Miles had left.  He doesn’t think he could bear to have Miles see him like this.

 

“General?”

 

Bass isn’t delusional.  He knows Miles has plenty of blood dripping from his hands, more blood than Bass himself most likely.  Difference is, Miles doesn’t have _children’s_ blood dripping from his hands.  Bass might have been able to wash his skin clean, but his soul is still stained.

 

“Sir?”

 

When did survival stop being a goal and start being an excuse?

 

“Sir?” A hand lands on his shoulder and Bass startles slightly.  He turns to meet Jeremy’s even gaze and presses into the touch a little more just to stay grounded.  “Are you okay, sir?” Jeremy asks softly as Bass’s eyes stray helplessly towards the grave.

 

No, he is not fucking okay.  Because someone forgot to tell him that in order to save everyone else’s humanity, he’d have to sacrifice his own.  Someone has to make the hard decisions; someone has to bear the weight of responsibility and guilt.  And Bass might have been able to do it, back when it was Miles and Bass, and Bass and Miles, and he had his best friend at his side to _help_ him bear the weight.   But now…

 

God, now he’s all fucking alone and he’s being crushed and broken and rebuilt into something he never wanted to be.

 

“Bass?”  Jeremy’s concerned voice breaks through Bass’s frantic thoughts.  "You okay?"

 

The General finally meets his Captain’s gaze and sees the worry and fear and that overwhelming helplessness reflected back at him.

 

Bass takes a steadying breath.  _He_ might be too far-gone but he sure as fuck isn’t letting anyone else be dragged down with him.

 

“Of course, Captain,” Monroe bites out and swiftly rises to his feet.  “Finish up here.  We head out in twenty minutes.”

 

He turns his back on the gravesite and his men and stalks back towards the small pond on the west side of camp.  Crouching down next to the water, he stares at his reflection until all visible vestiges of his shattering revelation are gone.  His wide eyes become steely and cool.  His hands stop shaking.  His hammering heart slows and steadies. 

 

The numbness settles in once more.

 

A stranger stares back at him. 

 


	2. Trust in Thy Creator

* * *

_When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it._

 From Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.

* * *

 

Miles had lost track of how many times Bass had turned to him with trust shining in his bright blue eyes and asked a variation of the question.  

 

“What should we do now?”  Carefree and trusting.

 

It started when they were just children.  Miles being so stubborn and bull-headed even then that Bass naturally looked to him for leadership.  And as a child, Miles hadn’t even stopped to think it would be any other way.  Bass had slipped into the roll of younger brother without any obstacle.  Oh, there were plenty of times when Bass would argue and snark back and push Miles - like any good little brother would - but when it came down to the big things, when it came down to making the hard choices, that was always Miles' job. Bass was Miles’s to take care of and to protect.  Neither of them even thought to question their dynamic.  It just was.

 

“Your orders, sir?”  Steady and trusting.

 

And then they grew up and enlisted.  And Miles became Bass’s Commanding Officer.  And though that might have put strain on any other relationship, Miles and Bass didn’t even blink an eye.  Bass trusting Miles to make the right decision – to give the right command – was inherent to his nature, so when Miles answered and gave Bass an order, Bass obeyed.

 

“Miles, what are we going to do?”  Desperate and trusting.

 

The Blackout happened.  And the world was thrown into darkness.  Survival became _everything_.  And Miles felt lost.  But he couldn’t show it because Bass was still looking at him with trust in his eyes, expecting Miles to know what to do, to _tell_ him what to do.  So Miles stuffed down all his fears and doubts and answered the question.

 

“What do you think, Miles?” Understanding and trusting.

 

They saved Jeremy.  And it hit Miles like a fucking sucker punch to the gut that nothing would ever be the same.  The world was in chaos and order wasn’t magically going to reinstate itself.  If things were going to change, then _they_ had to change it.  So Miles answered the question and told Bass his idea – form a Militia – and Bass just nodded and smiled and agreed.

 

“We’ll be waiting for your commands, President Monroe.” Respectful and politic.

 

They formed the Republic.  And while it might be second nature for Miles to snap out orders, he wasn’t good at that whole connecting with people thing.  That was always Bass’s strength.  Miles could _command_ soldiers just through shear force of will alone.  But Bass…Bass could _lead_ people.

 

And so Bass became President Monroe and Miles became General Matheson.  And people started looking to President Monroe for answers and Miles felt so much fucking _relief_.

 

“So,” President Monroe picked up his tumbler full of scotch as the door clicked shut behind his commanders.  Miles collapsed into one of the chairs, threw his head back, and closed his eyes.

 

“Tell me what to do.”  And there it was, that same damn question masked as a command.

 

And for the first time, Miles didn’t answer; he _shouldn’t_ answer.  Because no one should have that much power.  No one should have that much influence over another.  But he did.  And he didn’t know what to do with that knowledge.

 

Miles opened his eyes slowly and he met Bass’s gaze and Bass just sat there, staring at Miles, being _ever so_ _trusting_.

 

And Miles was helpless to do anything except answer the fucking question. 


	3. Sleeping to Dream

* * *

_My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during sleep alone that I could taste joy._

From Mary Shelley's Frankenstein

* * *

 

 

“-iles!”

 

The brunette gasped for air as his head broke through the surface of the water.  He tried kicking his leg free but his foot was still caught under the tree root.  Another rush of water came flooding down the riverbed and swept Miles back under the water.

 

He saw daylight once more and tried to gasp in another breath only to gag as water rushed into his mouth.  His ankle was suddenly wrapped in a vice-like grip and wrenched free of the tree root. 

 

Fingers curled into the collar of his jacket and he was towed towards land.  As soon as he felt solid ground under him, Miles crawled up the riverbank, coughing and sputtering until his airway was clear of water. 

 

“Jesus Christ, Miles,” Sebastian gasped out beside him.  “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

 

Miles collapsed onto the ground and stared up at the blue sky as his racing heart finally started to calm.

 

“You forgot to say thanks, you know,” Sebastian stated wryly, his eyes slanted to the side as he checked that his best friend was actually okay.

 

“Thanks,” Miles said as he rolled up onto his knees.  “You always have been the better swimmer, huh _Bass_ ,” Miles taunted as he sprang to his feet.  He heard an indignant shout from behind him as he ran away.

 

He only got a few yards before his best friend tackled him to the ground.  They wrestled for dominance and Miles ended up on top.  Sebastian looked up at him with shining, bright blue eyes.

 

“Give up, _Bass_?”  Miles asked with a wicked grin.

 

“Never,” Sebastian bucked upwards to try and throw Miles off him but Miles didn’t budge an inch.

 

“Yeah?” Miles moved his hands down to Sebastian’s sides and ruthlessly started tickling his best friend.

 

Sebastian immediately broke into loud peels of laughter.  Tears gathered in his eyes and his cheeks turned red.

 

“Well?  Do you yield, _Bass_?”  Miles asked once more, tone oh so smug since he knew victory was his.

 

“Alright, alright!” Bass gasped out.  “I yield, Miles.  I yield!”

 

Miles stopped tickling his friend’s ribs and patted Bass’s head affectionately. “Good, Bass.”

 

Bass pouted up at him and Miles couldn’t help but grin in response.   Then both friends broke down laughing.  And the laughter was carefree and light-hearted and then it slowly started to fade…

 

And Miles woke up.  

 

Awoke to a world where he had abandoned his best friend just because he couldn’t stand the guilt of seeing Bass change before his eyes and know that _he_ was the one responsible for the change.  Awoke to the reality that he had unknowingly destroyed his best friend only to create a monster in his image as a replacement.

 

Miles woke up and went back to the fucking purgatory that was life in Chicago.


	4. Echo of Ruin

* * *

_I, like the arch-fiend, bore a hell within me, and finding myself unsympathized with, wished to tear up the trees, spread havoc and destruction around me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin._

_  
_From Mary Shelley's Frankenstein

* * *

 

“He’s been spotted helping Rebels,” Jeremy reports, face carefully blank.

 

The words are a shock to the system.  Because as hard as these past months have been without Miles, Bass had always assumed his best friend would come back.  Or worst case, have left the Republic altogether.  Bass had never even entertained the idea that Miles would side with his enemy.

 

A maelstrom of emotions battles inside him and Bass just waits to see which one will come out the victor.

 

Anger blazes through his veins, scorching Bass from the inside out.  Whether it’s leveled more at himself or Miles is hard to determine.  Either way, Bass doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

 

Guilt curls low in his gut.  It wants to send him crashing to his knees to beg for forgiveness, but a sense of betrayal keeps him upright.  He’s guilty of a lot, it’s true, but so is Miles. 

 

Loss is a black hole just waiting to devour him.  As much as Miles’ betrayal _hurts_ , it doesn’t leaving Bass achingly _empty_ like the sense of loss does.

 

And that’s where the confusion kicks in, because even if Miles is the _cause_ of all these emotions, Bass can’t take it out on him.  Miles is his best friend, his family, his…everything.  Miles is the only one that can save Bass, from himself and the path he’s headed down.

 

“Sir,” Jeremy steps forward.  “How do you wish to proceed?”

 

Bass raises his eyes and flashes his teeth in a dark, angry smile.  “I want every single Rebel dead, Captain.”  He wants to lay _ruin_ to everything so that the world becomes an echo of the turmoil he feels inside.

 

Jeremy nods and then quirks his head to the side slightly.  “And General Matheson, sir?”

 

And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it?  The fact that in Bass’s mind – and apparently Jeremy’s as well – Miles will never _be_ the enemy, even if he fights with them.

 

So Bass just lets out a huff of laughter that’s lost and bitter and angry.  “Bring him back,” Bass turns away and curls his hands into fists at his side.  “Alive.”


	5. Father of Death

* * *

  _But it felt that I had no right to share their intercourse.  I had unchained an enemy among them whose joy it was to shed their blood and to revel in their groans._

 From Mary Shelley's Frankenstein

* * *

 

The fire crackles loudly and radiates heat in which Miles finds no comfort. 

 

The people around him are joking around, chattering softly, and sharing drinks.  They’re happy after the successful skirmish against the Militia.  They’d managed to drive off the small unit of fifteen and had looted the abandoned supplies. 

 

It was a small victory for the Resistance.  Only Miles is aware of how horribly insignificant a victory it was in relation to the War for Freedom.

 

A young man, whose name Miles couldn’t be bothered to remember but turned out to be quite the shot with a bow and arrow, beckons Miles over but Miles just shakes his head and walks to the edge of camp.  He drops to the ground and leans back against a sturdy tree and pulls out his flask of whiskey.

 

He doesn’t particularly want to make any friends here and even if he did…well, he sure as fuck doesn’t have the right to.

 

How can he possibly try to connect with the very people he had sentenced to certain death?

 

He might have run away from Bass, but he sure as fuck can’t escape the truth that he is _General Matheson_.  The Rebels fight against soldiers trained by _his_ protocol.  They try to out-maneuver commanders that use _his_ tactics.

 

The Militia is _his_. 

 

And what an efficiently destructive child it is.


	6. And So It Ends

* * *

_Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us._

 

_I am thy creature, and I will be even mild and docile to my natural lord and king…_

 

Quotes are from Mary Shelley's Frankenstein

* * *

 

 The last time they were in this position, the gun had felt so heavy in Bass’s hand that he’d dropped it after just a few seconds.  He couldn't bear even aiming a gun at Miles just on the off chance that it accidently misfired.

 

And how had Miles responded?  Miles had denounced all claims of friendship and told Bass he wasn’t his family. 

 

He told Bass that he was _nothing_.

 

And though Miles failed to shoot Bass, he may as well have for all that those words fucking _destroyed_ Bass.  How could Miles show him this path and then scorn him for following it? It just wasn't _fair_. 

 

So yes, Bass had felt hurt and angry and righteous as he ordered the choppers to hunt Miles down.  But later, when Neville implied Miles' continued survival, Bass had felt so much relief it left him breathless.  And it was after Neville left - when Bass had a moment to process this new reality where he meant _nothing_ to Miles - that the insight came crashing down overhead and a strange sort of peace and… _acceptance_ took root. 

 

And now, here they are again, with guns at the ready and leveled at each other’s hearts.  And it's the only way all of this could ever end.  Because Bass will never stop wanting Miles back…and Miles will never want to come back. 

 

“You killed my brother,” Miles growls out through gritted teeth.  “You killed my nephew.”  He takes a step closer and his hand tightens around the gun.  “You… _hurt_ Rachel.”  Miles lets the accusation hang in the air and Bass just stares evenly at him. 

 

“Well?!”  Miles yells.  “Don’t you have anything to say?!”

 

“What do you want me to say, Miles?” Bass asks calmly.

 

“How about you’re sorry?!”

 

_I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough.  I’m sorry I let you down.  I’m sorry for everything._

 

“Or how about you were wrong?”

 

_I was wrong for thinking I could fix the world.  I was wrong for assuming I had the right to so much power._

 

“Just fucking _say_ something!” Miles demands and Bass – ever so trusting  – obeys.

 

“Goodbye.”

 

A single gun shot shatters the tenuous silence.


End file.
